


And No One Exists Alone

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Four Weddings And A Funeral
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, challenge:New Year Resolutions 2009, recipient:mrsronweasley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 15:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiona corrals Matthew into going to an English department party where he spills brandy on Othello, quotes Auden, and meets the love of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And No One Exists Alone

  


  
  
  
  
  


  
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## And No One Exists Alone

 

Fandom: [Four Weddings and a Funeral](http://yuletidetreasure.org/get_fandom_quicksearch.cgi?Fandom=Four%20Weddings%20and%20a%20Funeral)

 

Written for: mrsronweasley in the New Year Resolutions 2009 Challenge

by [Philipa Moss](http://www.yuletidetreasure.org/cgi-bin/contact.cgi?filename=86/andno)

"Would you mind terribly," said Fiona, "going with Tom to the English party?"

Matthew blinked at her over his teacup. "Not at all, but why on earth?"

Fiona shrugged, and slouched further down the wall. They were sitting side by   
side on Fiona's bed, leaning against the wall gingerly so as to not crease her four-foot-by-  
three-foot poster of Sean Connery ("Why him?" Matthew had asked. "His charming   
Scottish accent," Fiona had answered. "I have a charming Scottish accent," Matthew had   
said, laying it on thick. "Of course," Fiona had said, "but do you also happen to be James   
Bond?"). Her room in the uppermost reaches of the college had a roof that peaked over   
one corner and slanted down alarmingly over the other. This did not give Fiona much of a   
say in furniture arrangement, and even less of a say in where her guests sat.

"Why don't you go with him?" asked Matthew. "You're doing English too, after   
all." He set down his teacup slowly. "Or," he pouted grandly, "weren't you invited?"

She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. Quite hard. His tea sloshed into the   
saucer. "Of course I was invited. I'm avoiding my poetry lecturer. I have yet to turn in   
my term paper and he's sure to corner me."

"Ah," said Matthew.

"Lovely man, through. Curly hair, quite young, likes to leap about the lecture hall   
and bellow the sonnets aloud."

"Hmm." Matthew set his cup and dripping saucer on Fiona's bedside table.

"So if you could just go and make sure Tom doesn't drink up all the brandy, that   
would be excellent. There's sure to be pretty girls there, too, Matthew. I haven't forgotten   
that I'm meant to find you a date to go doubles to that horrid dance with Charlie and   
Helena."

"Well." Matthew raised his eyebrows. "There will be brandy?"

"Oh yes," said Fiona. "This isn't finance, Matthew darling. We do have a bit of   
class."

\---------------------------------------------------------

There were ten or twelve other students in the office when Matthew opened the   
door. Tom, of course, was nowhere to be found. Everyone held glasses of brandy and   
stood around in clumps, talking excitedly. No one acknowledged his arrival, so Matthew   
squeezed his way between a woman gesticulating wildly and apparently pontificating   
about Rilke, and a man who threw his head back dramatically and laughed, holding his   
sides excitedly and nearly piercing Matthew's side with his elbow. "Excuse me. Sorry."   
Finally he made it to the bar, or what was serving as a bar: the edge of an incredibly   
messy desk. As he poured himself a glass, Matthew glanced at the paper closest to him,   
which was smudged in places with what looked like chocolate and which began mid-  
sentence with, "Éas the play continues, King Lear ages perceptibly. The discriminating   
reader must ask himself, therefore, whether Shakespeare has presented us with the heroic   
end of a good man's life, or burgeoning dementia and incontinence, on time-lapse."

"It's a rough draft," said a voice in his ear.

Matthew choked on his brandy and dripped some onto the desk. A particularly   
large drop landed on a weathered copy of Othello. "Oh," he said, blotting ineffectually   
with his hand. "I am so, so sorry."

"Relax. I make it a point to drink to the old masters. Gareth."

Matthew turned. "No, it's Matthew."

The man's eyes widened perceptibly, and the noise he made may very well have   
been a stifled giggle. "No, I'm Gareth, actually. But it's nice to meet you, Matthew."

"Yes," said Matthew, too much at a loss for words to say anything else. Not only   
was this fellow standing in front of him, Gareth, the curly-haired and leaping lecturer   
from Fiona's poetry class, but also he was wearing a waistcoat that prominently featured   
David Bowie's head.

Matthew gestured at it. "That's, er---"

"You're not in English, then, I take it," said Gareth dryly, but with a genuine   
smile.

Matthew blushed furiously as having been found out. "No. I'm meant to be here   
with a friend's brother, but he seems to have stood me up."

"Ah," said Gareth. "I know what that can be like. Tell me, is this young man   
worth the wait?"

It was the way Gareth said this that alerted Matthew to the fact that there must   
have been some misunderstanding. It did not take him long in his mental rewinding of   
their conversation to find where it had been. "Oh," said Matthew. "When I said stood up,   
I meant he was meant to be here and he's not. I didn't mean to imply that, well, that this   
was a date or anything."

Gareth laughed. "See? You can speak perfectly well when you have to. And here I   
was about to offer to tutor you. What are you reading?"

"I'm in finance," said Matthew. "But I can speak. There's just not much call for   
it, sometimes. My roommate, Charles, he's always off on some tale of girlfriend   
disasters, which is great in a lot of ways because whenever I'm down in the dumps I can   
always count on him to have it so much worse than me. And then Fiona, another friend,   
she can carry on both sides of a conversation if she has to. It's her brother who was   
supposed to come, actually. Tom. He's very nice."

"Oh dear," said Gareth. "Very nice."

"What?"

"Very nice is what you mother told you to say about people when you can't think   
of anything better, isn't it?"

"Yes all right you've caught me," said Matthew.

"Fiona. Is that the very striking and stiff-upper-lipped Fiona who owes me a term   
paper?" Gareth leaned against the edge of his desk, resting his hands on the edge. This   
very nearly sent its entire contents to the floor. As it was, only a corner fell. Matthew   
made an ineffectual lunge when he saw a sheaf of notes begin its downward lurch, but he   
was too late and all he succeeded in doing was making a not-quite-checked-in-time grab   
in the direction of Gareth's hand. Their fingers met. Matthew bent down and hastily   
scooped up the pages.

"Yes," he said. "She was too afraid to come."

"So she sent you instead."

"Yes."

"You're a good friend."

Matthew straightened and deposited the notes on the desk. "I try to be. Sometimes   
it's easier than other times. It's like what Auden says."

Gareth looked taken aback. "You read Auden?"

"Yes," said Matthew, grinning slightly. "Just because I study finance doesn't   
mean I'm a complete ignoramus."

"I stand corrected," said Gareth. "What Auden in particular did you have in   
mind?"

"'September 1, 1939.' 'All I have is a voice.'"

"Good choice. Not one of the better-know ones, but still quite good." Gareth   
tucked his chin down and peered at Matthew. "I'd say you have more than a voice."

"Thank you," said Matthew. Somewhere deep inside his stomach did something   
indescribable.

"Do you remember how that stanza ends?" Before Matthew could respond,   
Gareth started, "'And no one exists alone; / Hunger allows no choice / To the citizen or   
the police; / We must love one another or die.'" Gareth sighed. "Quite the sentiment, I   
think, especially on a global scale, but not, I think, to the exclusion of the personal."

"No, sir," said Matthew.

Gareth mock swooned. "Sir! Sir?! Aaargh!"

It had just slipped out. The last time Matthew had discussed poetry had been in   
school, with his English Literature teacher. He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone   
else had noticed Gareth's reaction, and was surprised to notice that there were only two   
other people left in the room with them, two women talking by the door. One of them   
slipped her hand into the other's and leaned in close and kissed her. Matthew turned   
away, eyes to the floor.

"Goodnight, Isabel!" Gareth called over his shoulder, to the women. "It was a   
delight to meet you, Charlotte!" To Matthew, after they were gone, he said, "A new   
assistant professor and her girlfriend. She specializes in Chaucer. I've always found him   
deadly dull, but there you are." He glanced at Matthew, who was still staring at the floor.   
"I suppose you don't get that up your neck of the college."

"Hmm?" Matthew felt as if Gareth had awakened him from a dream. He had no   
idea what he had been thinking of while staring at the carpet so long.

"Lesbians!" exclaimed Gareth, cackling. "Wonderful creatures. Are you   
shocked?"

"Shocked?" asked Matthew. "No, not really. I'm gay myself."

And then he felt like vomiting, because it wasn't something he had ever said out   
loud before. Not properly. Not to another person.

Suddenly it lost the allure of metaphor. He was actually about to vomit. "I'm   
sorry," said Matthew, "I think the brandy---" He bolted out the door.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Fiona sat down across from Matthew. He smiled at her, but said nothing, and soon   
returned to running his spoon around the bottom of his teacup in circles. Fiona noticed   
that his clothes were the same as they had been the day before, right down to the tiny   
ripple on the left shoulder of his shirt, where it had hung on its hanger, drying.

"Matthew, darling," said Fiona. "You don't seem very present today."

Matthew jerked his head up guiltily, as if he had just been caught stealing from   
the silver cabinet. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean you're a million miles away," said Fiona. "How am I supposed to   
complain about Charles if you keep staring at your tea like that?"

"Complain at will," he said. "I'm listening."

Fifteen minutes into her tirade, Fiona noticed that he was doing nothing of the   
kind. Instead of twirling his teaspoon, Matthew had begun looking over his shoulder at   
the teashop entrance every few moments, or whenever the bell over the door tinkled.   
Finally Fiona stopped speaking.

"What then?" asked Matthew mechanically, still looking over his shoulder at the   
door.

"What then what?" asked Fiona.

He turned back to her, grinning sheepishly. "I haven't a clue." He winced.   
"Sorry."

"Are you expecting someone else?" asked Fiona. "Did you invite Charles? I told   
you not to bring him. It's him I have to talk about. I can't very well do that while he's   
here, can I?"

"I didn't invite anyone," said Matthew, but jumped all the same when the door   
opened again.

Fiona slammed her teacup into its saucer. Matthew sat back, more startled than   
with any hope of avoiding tea-stains. "Matthew, I demand to know why you're so edgy."   
Struck by a sudden idea, Fiona leaned in and grinned. "It's not Lydia is it? Was she at the   
party? Have you had another date?"

"No," said Matthew quietly. "Not Lydia."

"Christ, it's not Henrietta, is it? That would be bloody perfect." Fiona pulled her   
bag off the floor and groped around inside for a cigarette. "I mean, it's bad enough   
Charlie dating tubby Helena. We can't have you ogling Duckface as well."

"It's not Henrietta," said Matthew. "We're not talking girls here."

Fiona was silent for a moment. She took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled   
slowly. "Matthew, you haven't been sent down have you?"

"No, Fiona. I---"

"Because that would be bloody awful. I mean, who gets kicked out for sending a   
football through the dean's window? You paid for it, didn't you?"

"Yes I paid for it, but---"

"Well good then. They can't send you down."

"Fiona, would you listen to me?" His face was flushed, and the people at the   
tables on either side were staring. Matthew lowered his voice. "I am trying to tell you   
something."

Fiona extinguished her cigarette in the ashtray provided. She leaned forward,   
elbows on the table. "I'm sorry," she said. "What is it?"

"I spent last night," said Matthew, "with Gareth."

Fiona looked at his expectantly. Finally, she gestured for him to go on. "And?"

He blushed. "And what, Fiona? You know and what."

She shook her head, confused. "No, I don't. Are you thinking of taking his class   
next year? Because let me tell you, it's not---" She trailed off. Her eyes widened. "Oh."

"Yes," said Matthew. "Oh. We weren't making course selections, Fiona."

"But," said Fiona, "but I thought---"

"You were mistaken," said Matthew, shrugging. "Nothing wrong with that."

Fiona leaned in even closer. "Is this some elaborate joke? Is this because I tried to   
set you up with Penny Gourd-Rogers? Because I was sixty percent joking about that   
one."

"It's no joke, Fiona," said Matthew. "I haven't meant to hide anything from you   
or lead you on or anything, but I'm gay and I've known it for a while and that's all there   
is to it."

"Well that's all right then," said Fiona. "Just tell me Charles is straight and I   
won't say another embarrassing thing about it."

Matthew smiled. "Yes, Charles is straight. Of course. How could anyone with that   
hair be otherwise?"

"You make a good point," said Fiona. "Unless that hair were on a woman, in   
which case---"

They both laughed, and finished their tea. As they were walking out of the shop,   
Fiona grabbed Matthew's arm. "And if you think you're off the hook on telling me about   
Gareth you're mistaken. I want to know everything. I don't care if I have to go into class   
and face him tomorrow. It'll be awkward enough already, as I still haven't the term   
paper. Spare me nothing."

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"What are you thinking?" asked Gareth.

They were in bed---their third time in bed, not that Matthew was keeping track---  
and the late afternoon light was filtering in through Gareth's light blue curtains.

"I'm thinking about Auden," said Matthew. "I'm glad he knew this. I'm glad he   
wasn't like Henry James, lonely until he died."

"We can't know that for sure about James, you know," said Gareth.

"But we can guess," said Matthew. "Anyone who thinks otherwise has got 'the   
romantic lie in the brain.'"

Gareth rolled over onto his side and gently placed on hand over Matthew's mouth.   
"That's enough of you and your Auden. I don't remember inviting him up here as well."   
Matthew licked the inside of his palm. Gareth laughed, and removed it, only to replace it   
with his lips.

"I could stand a lot more of this," said Matthew, as soon as he was able. "It's   
more interesting than finance, that's for sure."

"I should certainly hope so," said Gareth.

Matthew sat up. "I really should be leaving. Tom was expecting me for dinner,   
and I've already missed that."

"Stood him up, have you?" asked Gareth teasingly. "It's too late to make dinner.   
You may as well stay."

"Yes," said Matthew. "Well, I suppose it's only fair." So he lay back down, and   
didn't get up for a very long time.

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